


A Single Night

by Elleh



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Consensual Sex, Dancer AU, Explicit Sexual Content, Kinktober 2017, M/M, Master/Slave, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sultan Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 06:29:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12359511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleh/pseuds/Elleh
Summary: “I’m Oikawa Tooru, Your Majesty.”“And you are the best dancer in my world,” the sentence is as absolute as it is mocking, and Tooru has to bite his tongue to keep himself from retorting.“I’m just here to please you, Your Majesty.” Tooru hopes the underlying venom on his tone is clear and loud, and for the sultan’s soft hum, he knows it hasn’t gone unnoticed.Tooru curses himself. This is not the time nor the moment to make an enemy out of his sultan. Tooru wants to live. He has a nephew and a sister to live for, their lives as tight on his neck as he feels the bracelets around his ankles, holding his feet into the ground, into this palace, into this world.“Well, then. Dance.”





	A Single Night

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for day 12 of Kinktober, Master/Slave. I'm just madly in love with a hyper skilled dancer Oikawa and a powerful yet proper sultan Iwaizumi.

An intense smell fills the room in lazy waves of grey clouds. The sundown throws an orange light from the open arcs of the windows, the vivid colors of the walls patterns of beauty and conquest. Tooru has never seen a room this big, the thousands of pillows and soft surfaces as colorful as the decoration is.

There’s a long carpet signaling his path, his feet soundless when he walks it. Tooru’s ears are filled with the tinkling of the chains and coins of his light ropes and skin, and with his heavy breathing, that seems to be everywhere.

The mad pounding of his heart is choking him. The stupid thing is located on his throat, and Tooru walks with his back straightened and a soft curve on his lips while he tries to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of it. He wonders if the master can see his smile under the translucent fabric covering his nose and mouth.

“Is this the dancer?”

Tooru shivers at the sound of that deep, bored voice. It doesn’t matter that his skills are legendary, that the swirls of his hips are enough to make men fall in love with him. Standing now in front of the most powerful man on this side of Earth has Tooru aware to the core of his bones of all the little things that make him unworthy.

“It is, Your Majesty.”

Tooru doesn’t dare take his gaze away from the sultan’s feet, covered in golden rings and jewels. He sees him shift on his soft throne of pleasure, the two servants kneeled at his side moving with him. Tooru presses his feet on the soft texture of the rug, trying to ground himself. He can be the best dancer on the planet, but he’ll never be a free man.

“What’s your name.”

Until an elbow crashes on his side, Tooru doesn’t register the question. He blinks at the sultan’s feet, and without moving a single muscle, he musters, “I’m Oikawa Tooru, Your Majesty.”

“And you are the best dancer in my world,” the sentence is as absolute as it is mocking, and Tooru has to bite his tongue to keep himself from retorting.

“I’m just here to please you, Your Majesty.” Tooru hopes the underlying venom on his tone is clear and loud, and for the sultan’s soft hum, he knows it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Tooru curses himself. This is not the time nor the moment to make an enemy out of his sultan. Tooru wants to live. He has a nephew and a sister to live for, their lives as tight on his neck as he feels the bracelets around his ankles, holding his feet into the ground, into this palace, into this world.

“Well, then. Dance.”

There’s ruffling around Tooru when the order leaves the sultan’s mouth. Tooru doesn’t flinch. He stays put and waits for the servants to clear the space, his hands shaking against the naked flesh of his thighs’ sides. The room opens like a flower in bloom, a path to damnation perfectly fit for Tooru’s magnificent skills.

He breathes in deeply. The chain piercing his nipples tickle in response. Quiet fills the room, and Tooru’s lungs, and the shivering realisation he’s here to perform under the pressing gaze of his sultan, of his master.

At the sound of two single claps, music starts. Tooru closes his eyes, taking it all in: the lyre, the flute, the nostalgic and yet vivid rhythm filling his veins like blood. The bracelets from his wrists catch the fading light when Tooru raises his arms with slowness, the long chains drawing a perfect arc from his hands to the thick collar smothering his throat.

Tooru’s gaze is still on the ground, the crown on his forehead light and still heavy like a rock. The music’s rhythm fastens, and in answer, Tooru’s hips start to move. Slow swings while Tooru bends his knees and lets his body flow like water poured into a glass, his arms lifted above his head, the twists of his wrists sinuous and alluring.

The dance comes easy, the illusion of freedom on the way his hips whirl so slow one would think they aren’t glued to Tooru’s spine, now softly bent over. His body is a piece of art and his movements the patterns containing it.

Intoxicated by the music and the rush flowing through his veins, Tooru finally raises his half closed eyes, hazed and defying, and takes a good look at his sultan.

Broad shoulders, naked chest, his tanned skin matching obscenely well the golden pieces of jewelry decorating his body, and the cup of gold he’s holding half way his lips. A king resting on clouds of the best fabrics and the best feathers, his green gaze as pristine as it is heavy on Tooru’s serpent frame.

He’s charmed, and Tooru increases the circles his hips are drawing in the air.

The satisfaction is almost a living thing in Tooru’s mouth when the sultan takes in a sudden breath, and holds it in his lungs.

The trick has always been the eyes. Tooru hides them because he knows they reflect everything a servant can’t feel or crave for. He hides them because there’s magic on the way his hips twist in calculated circles, and he needs that spell to bewitch his all-too-powerful spectators. Just like he’s doing now.

Just like he does every night in a different palace.

Tooru turns, his feet and legs following a path only Tooru can see. He jumps softly on his toes, and then he drags his feet around the mushy surface, and his hips come forward, and the chains on him clack. Tooru’s body is a pleasure of tender colors and intense sensations. The strong and yet almost imperceptible scent Tooru has put behind his ears, on his sides, on his hipbones. His translucent clothes barely covering his legs, the darker fabric covering his crotch, the silver of his chains and bracelets and collars and necklaces, all titling in sync, all making their own melody. Tooru sounds as loud as the music. The fantasy of his undulating muscles and expert hips, of his clothes, specially chosen, of his eyes, tame and willing when they look down to his master’s feet, but feral and aflamed when they rise with each swing of his body.

A weapon. That’s how Tooru likes to think of himself when he dances, and yet, the reality this is a sword with a double edge is sharper than ever tonight. His skin prickles. Tooru forces his legs to follow the learned patterns, steps he could perform in his sleep, but the intensity of his own devices is heavy on his overworked lungs, on his tense legs.

The sultan’s gaze is like a caress on Tooru’s naked back when he spins, facing the entrance. Power is intoxicating, Tooru has found. His ass draws back, and the chains in his waist reflect the light of the flames, now illuminating Tooru’s skin. The sun’s on its way to disappear behind a mountain, and Tooru uses the light to delineate his figure, shadowing him. He moves with lazy intent when he opens his legs, letting the disappearing sun show every detail of his figure through the now useless fabric that covers him.

The sultan growls. Tooru bites his lip and feels the edge of the sword that’s his dancing cutting his feverish skin.

With the last flicker of the sun, Tooru’s arms raise and draw mystic figures on his sides, above his head, around his cheeks and waist. His hips swirl in uneven speed. A hard hit to the side, a sluggish roll back and forward, a fall to the side. Although the sun is gone, Tooru can feel the temperature of the room rise. Maybe it’s his sweat, now tainting his pale skin. Maybe it’s the sultan’s eyes, already lost on the temptation of Tooru’s movements.

There’s no need for Tooru to look over his shoulder and check what he already knows is there. A man with taut muscles, open legs, lips parted, a hard bulge under his loosen pants. Desire in its purest form, raw and open and absolute.

Tooru wonders, when he turns around with soft swings, if that’s what he wants tonight. If the tight feeling on his belly is arousal, or just power drugging his system. Tooru can feel his own cock swelling against the thin fabric covering it and he does nothing to hide it.

Facing the sultan again, Tooru bends his legs and swirls down, down, down, his arms above his head, his knees now on the floor, open and tempting when he raises his hips and then lets his ass fall on his heels, hands always in the air, as if Tooru were trying to catch the small particles of dust.

Tooru needs a second to realise all the servants are gone and the sultan is studying him exactly how Tooru has pictured him. There’s a shadow of doubt in his glazed eyes Tooru doesn’t like one bit, but Tooru’s movements never waver. Why would they. This is Tooru’s moment, the only time he has to be himself and to be free and to be his own, although this is nothing more than a show. Tooru moves on the ground as beautifully as he moves standing on his feet. The sultan’s attention is a hammer breaking Tooru in half.

The music fades away with the soft sound of the lyre floating on the air. Tooru’s breathing unevenly, his chest run by droplets of sweat. His eyelids fall half way, hiding from his gaze the worst of his thoughts.

For a long, heavy second, the room stays in a loud silence.

Then the sultan speaks, and Tooru’s body shivers as if a cold lick has just caressed his spine from top to bottom. “Leave us.”

Tooru doesn’t dare take his eyes away from the sultan when the musicians follow the order. He doesn’t even pretend he’s confused by who the sultan is addressing, or the spark of mad want now gleaming in the sultan’s eyes. The sound of ruffling travels between them, and then the door closes and Tooru’s alone with tonight’s master.

None move. Tooru’s on his elbows, his knees on the floor, his hips, —his _hard cock—_ , an offering with Tooru’s hips pushed forward. One would think Tooru has ended this specific dance with a single goal in mind, and when Tooru allows himself the thought, he agrees with it.

Tooru licks his lips. The fabric covering his mouth and nose keeps the sultan from seeing it.

“Come forward.”

There’s a tense moment in which Tooru can’t obey, caught between the stiffness of his muscles and the soft and yet inescapable pound of doubt on his temples. Tooru feels sweat fall from his hair and draw a line through his forehead till his eyelashes. He blinks, and blinks again, his gaze only focusing to notice the sultan’s expression is grave, but not threatening.

He’s watching Tooru with uncertainty. There’s need on his eyes, but there’s something else, something Tooru’s not used to see in the eyes of powerful man who can control anyone with a single bend of their finger.

That something is like a siren song for Tooru’s own doubts, and with a sinuous movement he stands, the chains clicking, the fabric covering his legs opening and revealing as much of his skin as there is to see.

The sultan swallows loud enough for Tooru to hear, but stays put and waits for Tooru. There’s no rush on Tooru’s steps, only exaggerated swings of hips that make him sparkle like a diamond under direct light.

When his feet are touching, Tooru stops. He watches down to the sultan, the electrifying feeling of knowing he’s in the powerful position now as intoxicating as his dance has been. The sultan’s fingers tap on the pillow he’s laying on, and just watches Tooru with interest and want.

The ogles are nice. Tooru loves those gazes, and usually loathes the unwanted touches they sometimes draw. And yet, when the sultan stays stills and only lets his eyes roam on Tooru’s body, not a single twitch of muscles trying to reach for him, Tooru finds himself loathing the _absence_ of touch.

“Take the cover off.” The sultan’s eyes are on Tooru’s pierced nipples when he says that.

Tooru complies. He undoes the earring the fabric is attached to and uncovers his expression. Tooru waits in diligent silence for the sultan to shift his attention back to his face. His stare is dark and filled with promises Tooru can’t but gasp at the sight of when he finally does.

It’s powerful, the way he sits. Legs apart, hard cock shaped against the fabric, the lazy and unworried fall of his shoulders and arms. It’s powerful, the way he looks, as if he owned everything, as if he could win anything that still didn’t belong to him. The sultan is a man with no worries and no hurries, and for once, Tooru can’t but want to break that perfect composure.

“Take the pants off.”

Orders that sound halfway to plea, halfway to questions. Tooru unlocks the fabric covering his legs, and lets it flow to his feet, a pool of silky green. The chains are still on him, the small piece of fabric covering his crotch still in place. Now Tooru shines on silvers, the gold of the flames licking his skin and painting him gold.

The sultan inhales harshly, Tooru’s cock an obvious sight under the ridiculous undergarments he’s wearing. Only two simple knots are keeping it on place, and before Tooru can do anything to stop him, the sultan reaches forward and undoes them at once.

Tooru moans softly. The ghostly touch of the sultan’s fingertips on his sensitive skin welcomed and needed. Leant forward as he is, the sultan’s face is now right in front of the arc the chain Tooru has running from nipple to nipple draws. It looks overwhelmingly obscene when the sultan puts it in his mouth and pulls.

With a gasp, Tooru falls forward. He hasn’t been commanded to touch yet, so he puts his hands on the pillows resting on the sultan’s back. His nipples burn, the pain a direct shot through his system. Tooru feels the rivers of lava expanding, and when they reach his already swollen cock, he groans deep on his throat.

“What your hips do.” The sultan mouthes around the chain, still pulling softly from it. “I want it.”

Tooru moans again when a tentative hand fists his cock. “It’s yours. I’m all yours.”

“Of course you’re mine,” he sounds pissed and aroused, and Tooru cries out when the hand sheathing him closes hard on his shaft. “I’m the sultan. You have to do whatever I tell you to do.”

“Yes.” Tooru’s not sure if he’s agreeing to his statement or to the stroking of his hand. Just to show him what Tooru’s capable of with said hips, he rocks them and swirls them just enough to make the sultan groan. “But I want this. I want all of it.”

Tooru pants. The sultan’s hand stops on his cock, a long beat before he raises his eyes and watches Tooru with the hardest of frowns. “Do you mean that?”

A swing of his hips, the smooth palm the best of caresses on Tooru’s cock. “Yes, yes, don’t you feel my _meaning_?” Tooru’s mouth shapes a sharp smile when his hips start undulating, imitating his dance. “Let me feel yours,” he whispers.

Tooru’s harshly pulled forward. He ends up sitting on the sultan’s lap, a hard cock against his own. Tooru hums, and moves his hips in alluring, charming twists that have the sultan digging his fingers on his flesh and chains in a matter of seconds.

“Gods, you move—” There’s no need to explain how well, for Tooru knows his skills are _legendary_. “Will you move like this when I’m inside?” it’s harsh and hoarse and Tooru feels the question so deep it’s almost painful.

“Let’s find out.”

A second pass. Tooru waits for the sultan’s approval, Tooru’s hands softly caressing the naked skin above his pant’s waist. He’ll never touch a sultan without the adequate permission, and when the sultan finally nods, Tooru lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.

The cock is hard and warm and Tooru licks his lips when he feels the head already wet for him. Tooru smirks and grinds his hips against the cock he’s holding with intent. The sultan groans. Tooru gasps, so needy, so ready, and tries to find words to express his demands without breaking the law of master and servant.

“Oh, _oh_ , do that—” Tooru does it again, and this time the sultan’s moan is so loud it shakes Tooru. He feels the chains warm against his skin, and without meaning to, he finds himself shoving his nipple on the sultan’s mouth. Tooru despises the damn chains, but they are his as much as they are a reminder of his status in the world. Finding pleasure in them is as much a punishment as it is a recognition of what he truly is.

A dancing master. A servant. A man who wants to be fucked out of his mind.

The sultan doesn’t seem to mind Tooru’s rushed actions. He bites Tooru’s nipple, tearing a long whimper from his lips. They are both panting when the sultan lets his tongue follow the line of the chain and pulls again. Tooru flinches, and unbidden, rocks himself against the sultan’s throbbing cock.

“Your Majesty—” Tooru moans, the sultan’s hand now on his cock so nicely moving it’s unbearable.

“Iwaizumi,” the rough growl is harsh on the sultan’s lips. Tooru stops moving altogether. He stares down, the haze of his eyes keeping him from seeing the sultan’s expression properly.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t call me Your Majesty. Call me—” the sultan swallows, doubt now tainting his eyes. “Iwaizumi. Please.”

“Iwaizumi,” Tooru repeats in awe. The name tastes sweet and great, and lighter than Your Majesty will ever be. Tooru can’t help the wide smile, honest and dumb, that covers his face when he says again, “Iwaizumi. It’s pretty.”

The sultan, —Iwaizumi—, frowns deeply, but Tooru can see the soft tint of a blush on his cheeks. This is the man who has conquered half of the world, who’s about to conquer the other half before he ages enough to be called old. And here he is, blushing like the most tender of men.

“Well, Iwaizumi. Let’s see if that cock of yours can take my dancing skills.”

Iwaizumi whines softly and catches Tooru’s nipple with his teeth. Tooru feels dizzy, gaping when the bite sends a direct river of warmth to his cock, already pulsating. He’s hard and he wants to feel that masterly mouth on his cock, sucking him to oblivion. He wants to have this powerful, kingly man on his knees, eating Tooru with abandon and an open, eager mouth until Tooru spills deep on his throat, choking him.

The image is enough to send a shiver down his spine, and growing some stupid bravery from the dead pit it should be buried in, Tooru puts his hand on the sultan’s nape. His fingers tangle in Iwaizumi’s hair, and Tooru scratches his scalp with his nails. A provocation, tentative touch. A soft hum caresses Tooru’s chest in answer, and Tooru does it again.

Iwaizumi’s cock grinds against Tooru’s at the feel of Tooru’s nails, and they both moan in unison.

“Grab them. Grab both and—” The sultan does, following Tooru’s order. It’s power and the bliss of his cock shealth by Iwaizumi’s hand against his own what fills Tooru’s stomach then. A pool of heat, of wet need, of whimpers and pleas. “Ah, ah, so good—”

“Move them, move your hips.”

Tooru does. It’s difficult to keep his cock inside the perfect cage it’s being ravished in, but he manages to rock his hips back and forward, swirl them, repeat. Iwaizumi’s panting on Tooru’s collarbone, the hollow at the base of his neck wet with saliva.

When the hands disappear from his cock, Tooru groans a loud complain. He’s lost in pleasure, the mist of a building orgasm clouding his mind from proper behaviour. Iwaizumi being a sultan’s not important anymore. How good his cock feels against his, how great his hands have treated Tooru is.

“Come back,” Tooru whimpers, almost soundlessly. His head is lean back, the collar on his neck pulling and choking and oh so good.

Instead, Iwaizumi grabs Tooru’s hips and lifts him softly. Tooru whimpers again, and again when he finally registers what Iwaizumi’s intentions are. Tooru’s hips are the material of myths, and he proves them to be when he wiggles them just the right amount to have Iwaizumi’s cock right on his entrance.

“Wait. Oil.” Iwaizumi pants, his fingers digging so hard on Tooru’s skin they leave heavier marks than his chains.

“Where?” Iwaizumi’s already reaching for it, a small, discreet bottle right behind his pillowed throne. Tooru snatches it from his grip and he’s already pouring it on his fingers and the hollow of his ass before the sultan can complain about it.

The way Iwaizumi opens his asscheeks makes Tooru’s breathing heavier. The pressure of his fingers on his flesh, the fact he’s opening him up without demanding or demeaning. Tooru gasps when his finger slips in, and it’s not only the oil making him so eager to put the second one not much later.

“My nipples,” Tooru mouthes, riding his fingers. “Could you—˝

Iwaizumi’s shadowed gaze never leaves Tooru’s eyes when he reaches forward and starts pulling from the chain, his tongue teasing the tip of Tooru’s nipple, then the chain, then back to the nipple. The view fills Tooru’s mind, the smell of Iwaizumi’s sweat almost a real taste on his tongue.

Tooru wants to eat him. He wants him so deep inside he won’t be able to forget his shape in the next three weeks.

Tooru takes his fingers out, and without breaking eye contact, he puts them in his mouth and licks his own taste and the oil as if it were Iwaizumi’s dick wet with Iwaizumi’s arousal.

The sultan growls deep on his throat.

Fingers still on his mouth, Tooru swirls down on Iwaizumi’s cock, impaling himself to the hilt. A moan long and shared fills the room. Iwaizumi’s hands travel from Tooru’s hips to his thighs, and Tooru almost whimpers at the sight of it.

This is a man giving Tooru free reign to fuck him as he pleases.

“I’m gonna make you see stars,” Tooru promises, feverishly, and finally starts moving.

Iwaizumi gapes at him when Tooru raises his hips till Iwaizumi’s cock’s an inch from pulling out, and with his teeth biting his lower lip, Tooru twists them with maddening slowness on his way down. And then up again, and down. Always slow, his hips always drawing impossible circles around Iwaizumi’s cock. It feels good, but the way the sultan’s looking at Tooru as if he were a treasure he has spent his life looking for feels even better.

“Oh, _oh_.”

Tooru leans back and puts his hands on Iwaizumi’s thighs. His ass swallows Iwaizumi’s cock with eagerness, his hips swirling and swinging, his hole a tight ring Tooru clenches and loosens around Iwaizumi. They are both panting, mirrored expressions of pleasure and pain. Tooru wants to come, and yet, he wishes this night could go on forever.

“Ah, shit, ah, you feel so—” Tooru arches his back, and in his next swirl down, he hits right into the spot he was looking for. He screams loudly, and losing the calculated swings of his hips, he does it again. Iwaizumi’s breathing shallowly under him. “Oh, _fuck, fuck_.”

“Yes, yes, do it again—”

Tooru clacks on his rushed way to orgasmic oblivion. The chains hit his chest and soft flesh, his cock bouncing with abandon against his belly. He feels so tight and so ready, the warmth just a hit from filling him completely. He gasps and fucks Iwaizumi’s dick with the knowledge his hips will never find a better master to use his skills on.

His speed is clumsy, now, the only thing Tooru’s looking for his own pleasure. Although Tooru can’t tear his gaze away from Iwaizumi’s, it’s only Iwaizumi’s cock what he wants, the head reaching deeper and harder until Tooru puts his hand on his own cock and starts stroking himself.

Iwaizumi’s gaze falls on his hand’s work, and in a beat his own hips are lifting, fucking Tooru with uneven rhythm, breaking Tooru’s calculated hips’ work. Tooru whimpers, his hand going faster and faster, the dim of his pleasure just a—

A bite on his nipple, the tight warmth of his own hand, and Tooru’s done. He comes so hard he screams out loud, unrestrained, his cum wetting Iwaizumi’s chin and falling on his open mouth. Tooru whimpers at the sight, riding his orgasm while still riding Iwaizumi’s cock.

It’s almost too much when Tooru sees Iwaizumi lick his come and start pounding on him with strength and intent, his orgasm the only goal now that Tooru is undone on him.

It’s breathtaking, the way Iwaizumi comes. Open mouth, red lips, the muscles on his chest taunting and spasming. Tooru can’t hold the urge of licking his cheek, a bit of his own cum, the salty taste of his transpiration.

Tooru feels full and wet and dirty, but the absolute peace of his orgasm a nice lullaby coaxing him to rest against the sultan’s sturdy body.

Breathing heavily, they both hold into each other until Tooru regains enough common sense to step back and away. Iwaizumi’s cum run down his inner thigh, the chains clacking when Tooru tries to find his clothes on the ground.

“Thank you.”

Tooru, bent over, stares over his shoulder to the relaxed frame of Iwaizumi against the pillows. His cock is flaccid now against his belly, and he looks as satisfied as he looks unsure.

“At your disposal, Your—”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “Please. Don’t call me—”

Tooru won’t deny a sultan any of his requests, so he nods, and goes back to his search. He’s trying to tie his undergarments with shaky fingers, when he hears Iwaizumi muster, “I hope you enjoyed this.”

A giggle escapes his mouth. “Oh, Your— Iwaizumi.” Tooru has a gleam of mischief on his eyes when he looks back at him. “I enjoyed it very much indeed. You are, in fact, one of the best fucks I’ve had.”

“And I guess you won’t repeat.”

Tooru grabs the translucent fabric that he calls pants, and starts locking it on the chains in his waist and the bracelets on his ankles. “I’m a busy workman. I can’t have the luxury of letting men believe I have a single owner.”

The truth rings sharp and raw and Tooru regrets how much he has let slip in a single sentence. Iwaizumi studies him, so attractive, so impossible, and nods. Tooru’s not sure why the knot on his throat enlarges when he sees that.

“I understand. I wouldn’t want to keep you from reaching the top.” Tooru breathes in deeply. “But.” Iwaizumi’s gaze is like a burning fire when it falls on Tooru’s unsteady figure. “If you ever want to come back here, you will always be welcomed.”

“Only the day I become a free man,” Tooru whispers without meaning to, “I’ll decide if I want to come back to you. By my own will.”

The tension is almost palpable on the underlying threat of that promise. Iwaizumi seems to drink it whole, before he nods again, a small smile playing on his lips.

“So be it. If the day you become a free man comes, you know where to find me.”

Tooru leaves without washing himself, without a goodbye, almost forgetting his pay. Iwaizumi’s cum is drying on his skin, and his nipples hurt, and Tooru’s hips are still trembling. He walks into the night, the desert unforgiving, and Tooru sends a silent goodbye.

The day he becomes a free man is as far as the moon. This is, and will forever be, the only time they’ll ever have.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ヾ(*д*)ﾉ
> 
> Who knows, maybe someday I get extra inspired and I write a re-encounter. We will see. If you wanna come and yell, [here 's ma blog](https://negare-boshi.tumblr.com/).


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